Go West, Young 512

Hey, remember "Don't Fence Me?" Well, it took a while, but I turned that 512 into a longer version (3,600 words) and submitted it to various markets. After fifteen rejections, it found a home in the anthology Song Stories: Blaze of Glory--which is now available in trade paperback and on Kindle!

The anthology also includes a story from fellow Pacific Northwest writer Camille Griep, who organizes the annual Cascade Writers workshop!

Every story in this collection is a "weird Western" inspired by a particular piece of music, which each author describes in an afterword. I couldn't include a music video with my afterword, but here's my song:


https://vimeo.com/11355379

I built the longer story around the same emotional core as the original 512, but added a lot of depth, if I do say so myself. There's more of all the main characters, an extended ending, and a new opening scene. Here's the first line:

The first time I met Horace Granger, he almost got killed by a magic bullet.

Want to read the whole thing, and six other song stories?

Buy Blaze of Glory in paperback ($9)

Buy Blaze of Glory on Kindle ($3)

"The End"

THE END
By Curtis C. Chen

God woke up on Saturday morning, went downstairs to check on her animals, then stomped into the kitchen. Satan stood at the counter, fussing with the French press.

"What happened to my terrarium?" God asked.

"I didn't touch your pets," Satan said without turning around.

"They're not pets," God said. "And that ecosystem is very delicately balanced—"

"Okay, eco-sphere, whatever." Satan carefully filled his insulated travel mug. "Your aquarium was blocking the screen. I had to move it so we could watch the game."

"You moved it next to the wine cooler," God said. "Interior temperature dropped by half. Most of the reptiles are dead."

"Are you sure they're not just hibernating?"

"Oh, you're a herpetologist now? And would it kill you to clean up after your little boys' club meetings?"

Satan frowned at God. "Geez, what crawled up your ass and died? Is is that time of the month again?"

"I'm going to forget you said that," God said. She glared at Satan's suit and tie. "You really need to go in today?"

"Yes," he said. "Conference call with Asia. Time zones. Can't be helped. Don't worry, I'll be back before seven."

"What happens at seven?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake." Satan grabbed his briefcase. "Dinner with Lucy and Geoff! Reservations at the Garden? Remember?"

"Yeah." God fidgeted. "Sorry I've been distracted this week."

"It's been more than a week," Satan muttered, and slammed the front door shut.

God ate two granola bars and drank a bottle of water, then returned to her experiment. The mammals which had survived last night's big freeze were quite resilient, and she wanted to see what would happen if she made them more complex.

The phone rang at five-thirty. God put it on speaker, but had trouble understanding what her husband was saying. It sounded like Satan was driving.

"I'll be ready to go soon," God shouted at the phone.

"No," Satan said. "Listen! There's been a change of plan. I didn't want to do this over the phone, but—this marriage is not working."

God was only half-listening. Her attention was focused on extracting bone marrow from a sedated male specimen, which she could use to create a female clone. "I'm sorry I've been busy. I'll take tomorrow off, I promise."

"That's not the point! Dammit, how do I say this?"

"Just hang up," came a female voice through the speaker. "She doesn't care."

God frowned. "Is that Lucy?"

"You had your chance, honey!" Lucy said. "He's mine now!"

"Okay, stop," Satan said. "You're making it worse."

God put down her instruments. "Where's Geoff?"

"Probably still at the office," Satan said. "Look. Baby. I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore. I need someone who's more attentive, more invested in our relationship."

"You should have sucked his dick more!" Lucy said, giggling.

"Really not helping!" Satan said. "I'm sorry. We're leaving. This is the end."

The line went dead. God turned back to her work.

"No," she said, watching as the male and female shared a piece of fruit. God smiled. "This is just the beginning."



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Wait for it...

We spent all day driving from Portland to Palo Alto, so I'm a little behind on work. The final 512 will be up, oh, let's say mid-afternoon today.

Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading.

Meanwhile, for no apparent reason, here's a picture of a marsupial.





Photo Credit: Tambako the Jaguar via Compfight cc

I Wanna Be Your Sledgehammer

ETA (22 Sep 2013): The Readers' Choice Poll is now closed. Winners will be announced soon!

ETA (22 Aug 2013): The Readers’ Choice Poll is now up at sledgehammercontest.com! Look in the left column for the ballot of eligible stories (including mine, "Born to the Legion"). Vote until September 21st!

ETA (21 Aug 2013): You can now read "Born to the Legion" online, as well all the other Sledgehammer 2013 submissions. Voting form coming soon!



Portlandia residents: If you're free tonight at 7:00 PM, join me and other writers at Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese for three-minute readings from this past weekend's Sledgehammer 36-Hour Writing Contest! I'll be reading the opening of my talking-animals-at-war story, "Born to the Legion."

Everyone else: Visit the www.sledgehammercontest.com and vote for the Readers' Choice Award (coming soon; polls open until September 18th)!

The writing prompts, given during Saturday's scavenger hunt, were:

1. An animal trainer
2. "Don't eat that!"
3. Cornfields
4. Doughnuts
5. Spending $4
6. Owls

And yes, I did spend way too much time watching video clips from Twin Peaks, and the working title was "The Owls Are Not What They Seem." Then I got halfway through the draft and completely changed the MacGuffin that drives the story. (Spoiler alert: it's pretty much just an episode of Stargate now. It's what I do.)

All of this year's contest entries will be posted at sledgehammercontest.com next month.

"My Least Favorite Martian"

MY LEAST FAVORITE MARTIAN
By Curtis C. Chen

The trouble starts before I can say hello.

"You again, human oppressor?" John says by way of greeting. He opened the door a split second before I could knock. Stupid Martian senses. "What vile directive must you impose now?"

I hold up a copy of his lease. "You signed this lease. It is a binding legal contract." I point to the circled paragraphs. "And you agreed to this condition, right here: no pets."

"This one is ignorant of the subject of your tirade," John says, wiggling his antennae.

"I'm talking about the six different cats your neighbors have seen through your back window."

"What is a... 'cat'?" John enunciates the last word theatrically.

Before I can ask just how stupid he thinks I am, a large orange tabby leaps onto John's shoulder. He attempts to shoo it away with his upper arm cilia while it scrabbles for purchase on his deltoid ridges. I fold my arms and watch the cat decide that the flat part of John's skull is a better resting place. The cat settles in between John's antennae.

"You've got thirty days," I say, shoving the lease into his hands.

"Human definitions are primitive and flawed!" John calls as I walk away down the hall. "A sentient being cannot be considered a mere domestic animal!"

I stop and turn around. "Oh, you want to call them roommates, then? You're only allowed up to three of those! Get rid of the cats."

"Cruel, unfeeling human!" John raises both arms to point at the cat now sleeping on his head. "You would ask this one to render an innocent companion creature homeless and destitute?"

"Hey, no one forced you to live here. You can find a new apartment. I don't care!" I realize I'm shouting, and lower my voice. John has followed me all the way down the hall. "But you can't stay here and keep the cats." I push the elevator call button.

John lowers his arms, but his cilia continue vibrating, like Davy Crockett in a wind tunnel. "Your respect for the law is admirable, enforcer human. But perhaps we may yet reach a compromise?"

"This is not a negotiation. Like I said—"

"If you were to consider the cats my roommates, I could retain three of them?"

I shake my head. "Look, you want to be a test case for personhood, that's your problem. Go talk to the ACLU. You've still got thirty days to comply or vacate." The elevator arrives, and I step inside. "These are the building's rules. I don't make 'em up. I'm just the messenger."

John stops vibrating and seems to slouch a little. "You are firm but fair, child-bearing human."

"Word of advice," I say, pushing the button for the ground floor. "It's 'woman,' or 'female,' or 'lady.' Not all of us want babies."

"I was not referring to your gender," John says. "Are you not aware of your medical condition?"

I'm unable to speak for a moment. "What?"

The elevator doors close before John can explain.



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"Money for Nothing"

MONEY FOR NOTHING
By Curtis C. Chen

"Don't know why you're wasting your time with the lottery," Rutina says, watching me twirl the ticket between my fingers.

It's because I know something you don't, Ruti. And I can't tell you my secret. It's too dangerous.

I don't know if this will work. It's a long shot, but even if it doesn't pan out, I'm only out a few bucks. And, you know, a third of the money goes toward public education. Hopefully including basic math skills.

The TV announcer shouts something—I'm only half listening, focusing my attention on the Lotto ticket, the object I want to push. Out of the corner of my eye, I see white balls spinning inside a metal cage.

"Maybe turn it down a bit," I say. "We just got Wally to sleep." A crying baby will definitely affect my concentration.

"Tevs." Ruti lowers the volume.

I have no idea what I'm doing. If I do win the lottery, how much luck does that count for? What's the price? Because I don't make the luck I push onto things—I steal it from somewhere else. And I'm always hoping it comes from someone I don't care about.

Ruti punches me in the arm.

"Ow!" I glare at her.

"Did you win or not, weirdo?"

I look up. I read the numbers on the TV screen, then compare them to my ticket. I read them again. And again.

"Well?" Ruti says.

"I did it," I say. "I won."

***

"Hey, Ollie! You're on TV!"

I rush out from the kitchen where I'm helping Ruti's mom with the dishes. Ruti's bouncing excitedly on the couch. Of course the news chose the worst possible photo of me, the one with my hair in those stupid curls, but the big number floating beside my dopey face softens the blow.

Six zeros. Two commas. More money than I've ever imagined.

And sure, a lump sum payout will be only half that amount, and income taxes will eat half of that, but that still leaves eight figures. Over a hundred thousand dollars, tax-free, every year for the rest of my life.

As soon as I finish doing the math, I'm reminded it's all too good to be true.

When I regain my senses, I'm kneeling on the floor, crying. Ruti is next to me, holding me upright.

"Ollie, what's wrong?" she asks. I point at the TV. "Who is that?"

"Dead," I sob. "He's—supposed—to be—dead."

Ruti's mom crouches down and puts a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Olivia. We'll figure this out."

"Mom?" Ruti says. "Do you know what she's talking about?"

Mrs. Alwen nods. "I haven't seen him in years, but that looks like Olivia's birth father."

So this is the price. This is what I have to live through to win the lottery.

Jesus, we're all going to be at the award ceremony, all four of us together. I don't know if I can do it. Mom sure can't. And I don't know how we're going to keep Steven from killing him.



Image: Fred Meyer Rewards Rebate mailer, August, 2013

"Meet Cute"

MEET CUTE
By Curtis C. Chen

"We have faster-than-light interstellar travel," Anglana said. "We have medical technology that can regrow entire limbs. I have a chip inside my skull which allows me to access the sum of human knowledge in a fraction of a second." She took a breath. "How difficult can it be to find one name on a goddamn registration list?"

"I'm very sorry, miss," said the robot behind the check-in desk. "Could you spell your name again, please?"

Anglana held out her passport. "Here. Can you see that? Can any of your sensors detect at least one of the three distinct identification markers in my official travel documents?"

"I'm very sorry, miss—"

"Of course not!" Anglana threw her hands up.

"Is there a problem here?" said a voice behind her.

Anglana turned and saw a man, roughly her height, wearing a hotel uniform and a nametag labeled RILEY. His dark eyes were as unreadable as the robot's. They stared at each other for a moment.

"Yes, Riley, there is a problem," Anglana said. "This robot can't verify my conference registration."

Riley nodded. "Yeah, that's been happening quite a bit. Some problem with their local data interfaces."

"How hard can it be to set up one lousy database?"

"I saw one of the conference organizers—a human—down that way." Riley gestured behind him. "If you'll follow me, maybe we can track her down and get this sorted out?"

Anglana exhaled. "Thank you. I will." She turned to the robot. "Thanks for nothing, you waste of silicon."

"I'm very sorry, miss."

"I'm married!"

Anglana followed Riley down the hall, around a corner, and then—after they both made sure no one was looking—through a door marked ASSOCIATES ONLY, down a service corridor, and into a supply closet. Riley closed the door, and they both began taking off their clothes.

"'Married?'" Riley said, kicking off his shoes and undoing his pants.

"Orders said make a scene," Anglana said as she unbuttoned her blouse. "I made a scene."

"You had to have the last word." Riley had removed his shirt, and Anglana had to admire his naked torso for a moment.

"Do I need to do anything with this?" she asked as she pulled on the hotel uniform.

"Nope." Riley had retrieved a garment bag and extracted a new, business-casual wardrobe for himself. "Hotel imprints a new day code into the fabric at start of shift. You've got full security clearance until eight AM."

"Good." Anglana twisted up her hair and fastened it in back. "Visual confirm on target?"

"Room 1024." Riley handed her a keycard. "Still partying, last time I checked."

"How long ago was that?"

He blinked. "Just under three minutes."

Anglana stepped back into her shoes and adjusted the RILEY nametag. "How do I look?"

"Dressed to kill."

Anglana made a face. "Really?"

The man shrugged. "It's a weakness."

Anglana opened the closet door, walked out, and turned around. "Nice to meet you. Don't die on the way home. Good-bye."

She closed the door before he could respond.



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"Sportsball"

SPORTSBALL
By Curtis C. Chen

Welcome back to everyone watching our live broadcast of the 127th Galactic Harmony Games! I'm Gropflixnum Square, and with me here in the booth is Braznart Morchey-Morchey-Pop. Whaddya say, Braz? Still having fun?

My status is unchanged.

Hey, me too! Now, I gotta tell you, folks, I have seen some outrageous plays over my five decades of announcing for the Harmonies, but what happened in this last quarter absolutely takes the cake. What do you think, Braz? Is this going to be the most memorably disastrous Harmony Games to date?

Gropflixnum, my dear friend, you are as ignorant as you are sexually promiscuous. Do you not recall the final moments of game seven of the 64th Harmonies, when an entire starting line-up of humanoids failed to defend their home goal from the onslaught of a trio of mind-bonded lump-beasts? Or game three of the 96th Harmonies, when a single Zallgallian child scored the winning point against an all-star team representing Arbogastia's best and brightest? I hardly think today's tawdry events will rate even a footnote in the grand history of this heroic competition, the greatest athletic tradition in the known universe.

And that's why we have him here, folks, to give you that unique Pop-Snarquijan perspective! Thanks, Braz.

It would not disappoint me if you were to perish in a conflagration, foul Gropflixnum.

Okay. Folks, if you're just joining us, I don't know what to tell you! We are still in a time-out here in game six of the 127th Harmonies, and the referees are still conferring over how to call that last play. Not to mention the stadium medical teams have been treating the wounded players for nearly twenty centizhus, and we still do not have an update on their status. Even the coaches have been barred from entering the surgical tents, and you know that's gotta be driving them crazy!

That is unlikely, Gropflixnum, you polyp on the rectum of existence, since the Earth humans use telepathic implants for communication. Their coach is surely aware of every development as it occurs—

Hold that thought, Braz, here comes a ref to make the call!

DECISION: UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS. PENALTY, EARTH HUMANS, FIVE YARDS.

Ouch, that's gotta hurt!

Gropflixnum, you are a genetically inferior specimen of questionable mental faculty.

Okay, folks, a quick recap of the action so far: the Earth humans are down by five points in the final six centizhus of the fourth quarter, and in what can only be described as an act of desperation, they finally unleashed their trademark "meltdown" attack! It's virtually guaranteed to generate some forward motion for them on the field, but always results in heavy collateral damage. Braz! Your analysis?

Thank you, honorable Gropflixnum. Taking all variables and available data into consideration, I believe—with better than 90% certainty—that your mother was surely an unlicensed sex worker, and more than likely a blood relation of your eventual father.

I meant your analysis of the game, Braz.

I know.



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